I Left It On Frenchmen Street.

All about my love of New Orleans, and her music.

 

Walking in the night's brisk air

almost there, almost there,

hands in my pocket of this cool

black jacket, feet beating to the

sound of the pavement, humming,

strumming with music.

 

I see her neon lights, I see the people

all wanting to take a seat inside where

the music's live and the band is livlier,

where the smoke crawls up the walls

and the lights turn down low to a

barely there yellow simmer with the

tea-lights bordering the windows.

 

I wait my turn, I pace in that line,

one ear towards the glass just trying to

make out the siren's call coming from

inside this joint, and right in I slide

it's sultry jazz just knock, knock,

knocking on the door to my aching,

enthralled beater, and ever does she call,

her song different everytime, but the band

plays on & on.

 

The Spotted Cat, my tiny little secret,

I walk inside her doors and find the

truest rhythm of my soul, flooding my

ears and warming my skin, I sink right in,

Maker's Mark staining on my lips and

a clove cigarette riding my fingerstips, as

they tap to the beat, joining the old song &

dance between musician and audience,

the band doesn't know it but I'm their

willing slave for some brass, and blues,

I let the tunes coming through just

make home in my chest, linger, linger

longer as the notes play.

 

New Orleans, how I love her, and she

ever beckons me to give her a kiss,

her streets all winding, leading me to

another door that feels like home and

Frenchmen Street, where I...

 

left my heart.